Risk
by DK
Summary: When Harry realizes he's a threat to everyone around him, he must make a decision; should he stay and risk their lives, or leave everything he loves behind? Bit of the ol' H/G, rated PG-13 for semi-graphic violence.


Risk 

by DK 

Disclaimer: The characters and world belong to JK Rowling, and I'm sure she knows what to do with them far better than I ever will. Still, enjoy the story No harm or infringement is intended; the following is just a bit of fun. 

**_1.)_**

It was shaping up to be a perfect day. 

When he and Hermione had set out from the Burrow earlier that morning, Harry had feared that the dark, brooding clouds above meant rain. As they neared the village of Ottery-St. Catchpole, however, the clouds had begun to scuttle away, and by the time they'd finished their shopping in the wizarding district, the sun was blazing in the sky like a great gold galleon, shining with all the fierceness of midsummer. 

Harry's spirits soared as he walked through the lush green hills surrounding the Burrow, Hermione at his side. Hermione, loaded down with books from the library, was talking nonstop about what they would all do next fall, about new classes, new instructors, and their increasing focus in particular fields, but Harry took no real notice of what she was saying. Her voice was only another warm, familiar part of nature surrounding him, as distant and muted as the bird singing over the next hill. The box was in his pocket, he was with his friends, and school and the old cupboard under the stairs both seemed a million miles away. 

Altogether, he was rather satisfied with life. 

Though Harry knew somewhere in the back of his mind that many people admired him, that he had done many things that it would be perfectly acceptable to be proud of, he seldom allowed himself to feel self-satisfied. 

It must be easy, he thought, to look at his life from outside and see grand adventures, Quidditch victories, and danger as exciting and desirable, but from within the perspective was quite different. Of course, it wasn't that he wasn't proud of _anything_ he did, he just tended not to dwell much on his triumphs. As Hermione had once said, a big head didn't much suit him. 

Of course, there were exceptions, and today was one of them. As much as he was unaccustomed to feeling so pleased with himself, he had to admit the gift he had bought for Ginny's birthday was as perfect as could be. 

He had found it tucked in a corner of a village shop, underneath a rack of dusty broom cleaning kits that probably dated back to the founding of Hogwarts itself. The little velvet box was so small that he had nearly missed it, buried as it was in mounds of junk, but a flash of silver had caught his eye and he'd zeroed in on the box like a Snitch, yanking it from the pile to reveal the treasure within: a silver bracelet, so thin and elegant that it barely seemed to be real. He'd draped it around his fingers, marveled at its cool, shimmering caress, which felt nothing like metal at all. He'd blushed then, imagining how it would look on Ginny's slender wrist, flashing in front of her hair as she rested her chin on her hand. He knew then he had to buy it. 

A label attached to the box revealed that it was "Silversilk by Daphne - for Witches of Discriminating Taste." Apparently, "discriminating" was the proper way to say "expensive", but he paid the price gladly, thinking only of how her face would look when she opened it. 

Hermione, who he'd dragged along to help him pick out a proper gift for Ginny, was so impressed she forgot to be angry that he hadn't taken her suggestion, a full set of the _Encyclopaedia Magica_, at all seriously. Not that Ginny wouldn't have liked the books - it was just that he wanted his gift to say something, well, _different_. Then again, it _was_ Hermione. Maybe she found encyclopedias very romantic. 

_Romantic._ Just thinking that made his stomach do back flips, but in a way that was not entirely unpleasant. He'd known Ginny almost as long as he'd known anyone at Hogwarts, and he'd been both flattered and embarrassed by her crush on him for some time. Still, he'd been so caught up, first in his adventures and then with his pointless, clueless crush on Cho, that he hadn't really noticed her until the beginning of fifth year. He'd always liked her as a person, but before he could never really seem to see her as anything but Ron's little sister. And then, out of nowhere, the thought had occurred to him that Ginny was also a _girl._ A kind, intelligent, talented, charming girl... 

After that, there could be no going back, even if he wanted to - and sometimes he almost thought he did, for the sudden change in his feelings could be frightening at times. It was as if all the things he should've been feeling for her all along had crushed down upon him at once in an avalanche of emotion he was helpless to resist. 

He found himself thinking about her at the oddest times; while brushing his teeth, sitting in the middle of Potions, before a Quidditch match. He would see the bright flash of her hair across the dining hall and imagine it sliding through his hands, watch her laugh and wonder what her lips would feel like on his own, glimpse her deft hands pressing quill to parchment and imagine holding them, kissing each perfect knuckle. Her name circled and swirled in his brain like some secret mantra: _Ginny, Ginny_. 

He was, in short, going quite out of his mind. 

He felt awkward and nervous around Ginny when he never had before, spent nights awake thinking of all the times he had ignored her and berating himself for it. He wanted to say something, anything, and yet at the same time he was afraid to. He felt like a grindylow was in his stomach, ripping and tearing and eager to be released, but letting it out might only make the situation worse. How could he say anything _now,_ after all this time? 

_You were children then,_ he told himself. _It was a silly crush and she loves you like a brother now._ He didn't know if it was true or not, but he felt he needed to prepare himself for the worst. 

Ron and Hermione had noticed he was more nervous than usual, but must have chalked it up to end of year exams. For his own part, Harry had stayed quiet, unsure how to voice his thoughts even to his closest friends. Then had come summer and the Dursleys, and his feelings had laid dormant for a while, only to flare up again when he went to stay at the Burrow with the Weasleys and Hermione. 

In the end, he caved and told Hermione about his feelings for Ginny. He had wanted to tell Ron as well, but was a little afraid that some brotherly directive would force Ron to thrash him or tell Ginny, and he didn't want her to find out he liked her either of those ways. Besides, considering how miserable he usually felt when he and Ron fought, he wanted to avoid that if at all possible. Hermione had agreed to help him, which had brought her out with him on this excursion in the first place- 

"Harry!" Hermione wagged a finger in front of his nose. "You're not listening to me at all!" 

"Sure I am," he said. It wasn't precisely a lie; technically he was _listening_, he just wasn't _paying attention_. 

"Then what was I talking about?" She asked, her voice defiant. 

"Um... er... something dull and Hogwarts-ish?" He grinned to take the bite out of his words. 

"I was talking about the new edition of _Hogwarts: A History_ they're issuing this year." 

"Sooo," Harry said slowly, as if mulling it over, " ...I was right." 

"_Honestly,_" She huffed, "It's a very interesting book. You and Ron just won't give it a chance. I still think he's a bad influence on you." She hugged her parcel of books close to her chest and gave a little smile. "Of course, I think you're more interested in _another_ Weasley these days." 

_"Hermione!"_

"You know perfectly well it's true," She said. Her smile widened. "I have to admit, I've never seen you so ruffled over a girl before, not even Cho Chang." 

"Leave it," Harry said, kicking at the tall grass. "Now _that_ was a mistake. Or would've been, if she'd given me the time of day." The memory of her voice rose in his mind- 

_(I'm sorry Harry)_

_(look Harry you're really nice)_

_(just don't think of you that way)_

-and he fumed that he had ever been that stupid. Cho was a nice girl, but his crush on her had been misguided - they had little in common, barely knew each other, and she didn't feel anything for him. It had been his first clueless flailing expression of adolescent affection, and the thought of it still embarrassed him to no end. 

Harry pushed up his glasses and rubbed his forehead irritably. The sudden turn in conversation seemed to be giving him a headache. They walked in silence for a while, drawing closer to their destination. A few more hills, and the Burrow would be in sight. 

"Sorry I brought up Cho, Harry," Hermione said. "I know she's still a sore spot for you. I didn't mean anything." 

"It's okay," he said. His head was positively throbbing now, but hearing her say that made him feel a little better. "I'm sorry I insulted _Hogwarts: A History._ I know that's a sore spot for you. I didn't mean anyth-hey!" 

She socked him on the arm and tried to pull an angry face, but before long they both dissolved into laughter. It was good to laugh again, after everything that happened last year. 

They were rounding the last hill now, and soon the sprawling, ramshackle mass of stone and magic that was the Burrow would be in sight. 

"All right, Harry," Hermione said, a businesslike smile appearing on her face. She seemed to be most happy when she was telling someone what to do. "I'll go in first and make sure no one's nosing about and then you go up to you and Ron's room and hide-" she trailed off. "Hide-" 

"Hermione?" Harry asked, looking up from the ground at her. 

Hermione looked as if she'd just been hit in the stomach with a Bludger. Her mouth opened, then closed, then opened, again and again and again. The books tumbled from her arms as her grip went slack, landing with a rustling sound in the thick grass. A few seconds later, she joined them, her legs folding up under her in a manner that reminded him of Uncle Vernon's card table. "Hermione! What's wrong?" Harry grabbed her shoulder and started in surprise; she was trembling beneath his hand, quivering like a startled rabbit. With great effort, she raised a shaking finger and pointed. 

Harry turned to look, and saw it. 

His heart spasmed and he drew a short, fiery breath. He felt as if a giant had wrapped its fist around his body and clenched, snapping his rib cage, driving bony spikes into his lungs, crushing his innards to jelly. His stomach twisted itself into a tight knot and he felt the urge to retch but realized he could not; he was choking, gagging on terror and misery so acute that it rendered him almost senseless. 

"No," he heard himself saying. His voice seemed very far away. "Oh no no no _please_ no." 

It hung above the house, poisonous green and terrible, a magical emblem of a skull with a snake darting from its mouth. The Dark Mark. Voldemort's sign. As he looked at it his headache seemed to increase, and he realized that it wasn't his head at all, but **_his scar._** How could he have been so _stupid_, so complacent? Why hadn't he realized the danger? 

"It's the Dark Mark, Harry!" Hermione wailed. She was crying now, holding her face in her hands as sobs of fear wracked her body. His terror was such that he didn't even look back; at least she was alive, when everyone inside might be- 

_Ginny! Ron!_

He began to race towards the house, stumbling and tripping in his mad hurry. Behind him, Hermione was shouting something. He didn't care. Nothing was going to stop him from going in there, not if the Weasleys were- 

_(no don't think it don't you'll make it true DON'T)_

He wasn't sure how he reached the porch. One minute he was racing across the lawn, the next he was there, tripping over the pile of Wellingtons near the door, fumbling with the latch, not even realizing it was broken till the knob came off in his hand. He tossed it aside and gave the door a push, feeling his stomach turn to ice as it swung open. Somehow, he was still denying reality. 

_It's just a joke,_ his mind gibbered. _Fred and George are just joking around it's the worst joke ever and they'll get in so much trouble but they'll get over it and really everyone will laugh when they see how scared I am and it'll be all right, all right, it has to be all right._

Fred and George were lying on the floor just on the other side of the door. They weren't laughing, and something inside told Harry that they'd never laugh again. They lay on their backs, their mouths lolling open, their eyes 

_(just like Cedric's)_

wide and unseeing. Part of him wanted to run to them, shake them, tell them to wake up, because this was Fred and George and it was impossible that anything like this could happen to them. They were always so full of life, getting into so much trouble and having so much fun and playing so many jokes that they simply couldn't be dead. But they were, they had to be, and that meant that everyone else- Ron, Ginny- 

_(DON'T)_

Harry drew his wand and entered the house, stepping over Fred and George on the way, feeling nothing but a sort of numb terror. He thought distantly that he must be in shock, that later he'd have nightmares about this for the rest of his life, and yet now there was nothing but a sort of cold, slithering dread. His mind was blanking itself, refusing to believe the things it was seeing, preparing him for the horrors that it knew must lie ahead. 

He moved through the familiar environs of the Burrow in a daze. The house was still and hot and quiet, save for a breeze that blew through the open kitchen window and ruffled the floral curtains. The normally comforting objects around him - battered furniture, waving family portraits, Mr. Weasley's Muggle-related knickknacks - seemed like ancient relics, distant and useless. This place no longer felt like the Burrow at all. It felt like- 

_(DON'T DON'T)_

-a tomb. 

The Weasley clock was broken, scattered across the floor in a hundred different pieces. Fighting off the growing, lurching horror that threatened to consume him, Harry stepped over the shattered remnants and into the kitchen. 

Mrs. Weasley was at the foot of the stairs, slumped against the wall, her eyes closed. He might have thought she was sleeping if not for the trail of blood that ran from the back of her head and up the stairwell wall like some sort of macabre racing stripe. Just the sight of her twisted a knife in his gut and he felt a whimper fight to escape his lips. This was Mrs. Weasley, who loved him almost like one of her very own children. A vision of her hugging him just last year after the horrors at the Triwizard Tournament entered his mind, the memory sharp and harsh as the pain in his scar. 

_"It wasn't your fault, Harry."_she had said, but the truth was undeniable. 

_"I told him to take the cup with me..."_

_(it was your fault Harry Cedric's dead and it's your fault and Fred and George are dead and it's your fault and Mrs. Weasley's dead and it's your fault and Ron and Ginny too and it's your fault because you're far too dangerous to be around)_

"No," Harry breathed. "No. No. No. No. NO." His barrier of numbness buckled and threatened to break entirely. This couldn't be happening, not now, not to them. It was a dream or a trick or an illusion or anything but real. Harry knew was lying to himself, but it was a lie he needed, the only thing that could keep him going. In all his life, he'd never felt as wretched as he did at this moment, never felt more like crawling into a corner, curling up in a ball, and weeping like a child. He teetered on the brink of absolute despair and madness, and once he began to scream, he wasn't sure if he would be able to stop. 

_Pull it together, Potter,_ he told himself. He was astonished that he could compose himself at a time like this, but knew it couldn't last long. _You can cry later. You have to find Ron and Ginny-_

_('s bodies)_

_-and get out of here._

He tried not to look at Mrs. Weasley or the blood as he walked up the stairs on shaking legs. A voice in the back of his head told him not to go up there, just to turn and run and never look back, but he didn't listen. One way or another, he had to _know_, even if that knowledge killed him. 

He was sorry he hadn't listened the moment he reached Ron's room. The door, splintered and shattered but still bearing the battered slogan Ronald's Room, hung open on broken hinges, revealing a scene of orange-tinted chaos. The broken remnants of Ron's bed and other pieces of furniture lay in a heap just beyond; they had probably been piled up to block the door, but had done no good. The room was in complete disarray, all Ron's most prized possessions torn, scattered, and uprooted as if caught up in a whirlwind. 

Harry looked beyond the furniture and suddenly felt his legs fall out from under him. The cold numbness vanished, replaced with the earlier sensation of being crushed, magnified a thousandfold. 

_What have I done?_ he thought, and a braying voice in his head jeered 

_(your fault your fault your fault)_

Ron and Ginny lay in the center of the room, sprawled on the floor almost side by side. They were both very, very dead. 

Ron lay face up, his arms thrown out in front of him as if to shield himself. One hand still gripped the shattered, burned ruin of a wand. He didn't have a mark on him, not even the slightest bruise, and Harry knew exactly what had done this. _Avada Kedavra_, the Killing Curse. He heard the ghost of Ron's voice in his brain- 

_"-that spider just _died_, just snuffed it right-"_

and felt something snap within him. Ron. His first and best friend ever, his _brother_ in every sense but blood. Dead. Dead. _Dead._

Ginny was worst of all. She lay face down in a pool of her own blood, her hair spilling over the floor like a cascade of liquid flame, one arm curled beneath her, the other extended as if she was reaching for something. Her exposed arm looked _strange_, and then Harry realized that it had been flayed nearly to the bone. He felt his gorge rise, and he _knew_ with a sick and dawning horror that her face would look the same, that everything that had been Ginny - her lips, her eyes, her hands, her soul - had been cruelly stripped away, leaving only a dead husk. 

_You can't be dead, Ginny,_ he thought. _You can't be dead because tomorrow's your birthday and I have to give you your present. None of you can be dead because we were going to have a really smashing time and- and-_

The last of his resolve slipped away as he felt hot tears began to pour down his face, and for once he didn't care about being strong. For once he wasn't Harry Potter, Wizarding Celebrity, Foe of Voldemort, Quidditch Star, Triwizard Champion. For once he was only a boy, and he was terrified and disgusted and absolutely devastated. 

Harry gave a howl of pure misery and buried his face in his hands, sobbing brokenly. Even now, he wanted to stop himself, feeling shame at his weakness, but he could not. All he could seem to think about was meeting Ron on the train to Hogwarts, Ginny's embarrassing singing dwarf, Mrs. Weasley knitting him a flood of sweaters, Fred and George passing along the Marauder's Map. Those memories, once so happy, cut at him now like a thousand razors. They had all been so kind to him, and he had repaid their kindness by killing them. 

Voldemort and his followers might have done the deed, but if not for Harry the Weasleys never would have been targets in the first place. It was his fault for getting close to them, allowing them to do the same, forgetting that he had the biggest bull's-eye in the wizarding world on his chest. His very presence had brought death into their midst, and he hadn't even been here to face it with them. He had been so stupid, so foolish, laughing over gifts and books and the weather while they were dying. He hated himself for that, for all of it. 

"Feeling a little upset, Harry?" came the voice from behind him, cold and terrible. The pain in Harry's scar spiked into white-hot agony. "I thought you were made of sterner stuff." 

Harry heard rather than felt his front teeth clack together. A hot spark of anger began to rise in him, burning through his sorrow. A raw red wrath unlike anything he had ever felt before took hold of him, and he could only think about how much he wanted to kill the man that stood behind him. 

_"You."_ Harry said, turning around. His eyes were already dry. His grip tightened around his wand and it creaked in warning, the wood flexing and threatening to snap. 

Voldemort stood there, shrouded in robes so dark they seemed to drink the light. He looked much as he had when last Harry had seen him; the same red eyes, skull-white face, slitted nostrils. Yet standing here in the Burrow, lit by the mellow afternoon sun that poured in through the hall window, he was far more terrifying than he had been in a graveyard in the middle of the night. 

"Who else?" Voldemort said, cold amusement creeping into his voice. His wand appeared in one blood-stained hand and he pointed it at Harry. "Now put the wand down before I have to hurt you. Though it looks like I've managed that well enough already." 

"_I'll kill you,_" Harry said, his voice thick with pain and rage. The screaming ache in his scar seemed to have consumed him; he felt it strip away everything he was, leaving him with nothing but the desire to destroy the thing before him and sink into white oblivion. 

"You've failed to do that several times now, Harry. Somehow I doubt you'll be successful now. Of course, you're welcome to try, but I wouldn't suggest it. Look what happened to the Weasleys." A ghastly parody of a grin split Voldemort's pale face. 

"Stay back!" Harry said. Even through the waves of fear, grief, and anger that threatened to bear him down, he knew Voldemort could do nothing to him as long as he held on to his wand. They were a matching pair, and if they struck each other with a spell, Voldemort would find himself once more facing Priori Incantatem. 

"Very well. I'm giving you one last chance to drop your wand." Voldemort gestured behind him, and Hermione stepped into view from the stairwell. She looked _wrong_ somehow, and Harry recognized the stiff, puppetlike movements that meant she was afflicted with the Imperius Curse: her head drooped so that her chin touched her chest, her face was frozen and blank, and she stood stiffly, her arms held tight against her body as if bound by an invisible rope, her wand gripped in one white-knuckled fist. "Or I order your little Mudblood friend to kill herself in the messiest manner I can think of." 

Voldemort snapped his fingers and Hermione raised her arms, gripped her wand in both hands and turned it on herself, holding the tip less than an inch from her throat. Her face remained an emotionless plaster mask, only the frantic, animal look in her eyes betraying her terror. 

"And I can think of many, Potter," Voldemort said. "Curses so old and forgotten that the Ministry doesn't even know to make them Unforgivable. But they are, quite. Take the _Fracta _curse." He ran a hand gently across Hermione's cheek, leaving a streak of blood behind. _Ginny's blood,_ Harry thought, not sure whether to cry or scream. "Shattering all the bones in the body to powder in one painful instant. _Cruor Inflammo_, turning the blood to fire within the veins. _Cruoris Laniatus_, ripping bone from flesh." His horrible smile widened still further. 

"Or the _Excorio _curse. My favorite of all, though young Miss Weasley disagreed." Seeing Harry's involuntary flinch, he continued. "I peeled her like a grape, Potter. She called for _you_. It was quite charming, in a hopelessly pathetic sort of way. I told her you were already dead just to see the hope die in her eyes." 

The gears inside Harry's brain ground together and stopped, bursting into violent flame. His mind seethed at the thought of Ginny being tortured, as Voldemort had no doubt intended. He couldn't seem to focus on anything except his anger, his hatred. He no longer wanted to strike Voldemort now, he _needed_ to, as much as he needed to breathe. 

_Do it,_ a voice said within, raw with anger. _The Killing Curse. You're stronger now, you can do it. Strike him down. Avenge them._

"Do you want to kill me, Harry?" Voldemort asked. "I don't blame you. You're free to try. And you might even succeed, but the Mudblood will die as well. One brief command, and her life is extinguished. Haven't you killed enough of your friends today already?" 

Harry did not precisely decide to throw the wand. He knew even in this state that Voldemort could not be trusted, and that throwing away his only weapon would in no way ensure that Hermione remained safe. But overwhelmed with grief and guilt and unwilling to risk any more lives, he allowed his arm to snap forward and his fingers to open, sending the wand flying end over end down the hall. It struck the floor by Voldemort's feet, rolled for a few inches, and wedged itself into a crack in the floorboard. 

"Excellent," Voldemort said. "Now that we have that settled-" He snapped his fingers again and Hermione took two steps forward, her mouth opening in strained grin that reached nowhere near her still-terrified eyes. 

_"C-C-Cruoris Laniatus!" _she said, and Harry clamped his eyes shut, unable to watch. There was a loud, _tearing_ sound, and he heard something splatter on the walls, felt something hot and wet on his face and he knew it was her blood but he wouldn't look, _couldn't-_

"You were a fool to challenge me, Harry Potter," Voldemort said. "I will destroy everyone and everything you love, and then, when you are broken and useless, I will finish you once and for all." 

Voldemort began to laugh then, high and terrible, and Harry felt himself drowning in the sound and the darkness, felt himself begin to _unhinge_, to snap, to scream. 

He didn't stop until the green flash seared through his closed eyelids, consuming the world in baleful emerald fire. 

~~~ 

**_2.)_**

Harry awoke with a start, shouting and flailing his arms. In the process, he somehow managed to grab the velvet curtains that surrounded his bed and tear them free from their bindings with a tremendous ripping sound. 

"Blimey, Harry," someone said. "I know you're excited about Christmas and all, but there's no need to get all... _epileptic_ about it." 

"Ron?" Harry asked, his mind and voice his still thick with confusion. He sat up and fumbled on the nightstand for his glasses for a moment before finding them and putting them on. The blurry world before him popped into focus, and he could make out the familiar confines of his dormitory room at Hogwarts. Ron reclined on his own bed with an expression of consternation; the rest of the beds were empty. 

Relief struck Harry with all the force of a dragon's tail. For a moment he just sat there, gasping a little, allowing his terror to seep away as reality reasserted itself. It was only a dream after all, and he was still in his Fifth Year here at Hogwarts, and his friends were all safe. 

_But for how long?_ a voice in his head said, and he felt his chest seize up. This was far from his first nightmare about Voldemort; he'd had them as long as he was alive, before he had even known what they meant. Still, he'd never had one quite like this, so bloody and terrible and full dead friends. 

"What are you on about, Harry?" Ron asked. "You're acting like you've gone absolutely barmy." He sat up on his bed and began pulling on his shoes and socks. Harry had to repress the urge to hug him in a most unmanly and unGryffindorlike way just for being alive. 

"Nothing, nothing," Harry said. He ran his hands through his hair, finding his forehead slick with cold sweat. At least there was no pain in his scar; that had apparently been as false as the rest of the dream. "Just a dream, that's all." 

"Hell of a dream." Ron grinned. "Were you snogging with _Cho_?" 

_No, Ron, I dreamed that you and your entire family were murdered in the worst way possible just because you liked me_, he thought, but he couldn't say that. Not now, not on Christmas morning. Not even to Ron. 

"Should we talk about what I heard _you_ saying in your sleep, Ron?" He said instead, and the smile that broke out on his face was not entirely false. He cleared his throat a bit, and managed a passable imitation of Ron's voice. "_Oh, Hermione, Hermione, why don't you just-"_

"All right, now, all right," Ron said, blushing and waving a hand in dismissal. "We're going to be late. I told Ginny and Hermione-" His blush deepened. "-that we were going to bring our presents down and open them all together this morning, so we'd better get on with it or we'll hear complaints about it the rest of the day. You know how Hermione gets, and you only think Ginny's so sweet because you've never had to live with her for longer than a week or two at a time." 

Ron looked at Harry for a moment, sitting in bed, still in his pajamas, blinking like an owl. He sighed and shook his head. "No, it's no good at all. It's going to take you forever to get ready. I might as well go on down and try and stall them as long as I can. Come on down soon as you're ready. Just pray I'm still alive." He gathered up the presents piled at the end of his bed and slipped out the door with a grimace. 

For the first time, Harry noticed the heap of presents on the trunk at the end of his own bed, but couldn't summon up much interest. He stood up, walked over to the bureau on the far side of the room and gazed into the small dressing mirror that sat there. A haggard replica of his face gazed back, pale and ghostly, his scar standing out in sharp relief. Splashing his face with cold water from the nearby pitcher didn't seem to help much - he felt a little wetter and more awake, but the dark, haunted circles beneath his eyes remained. In his head, Ron's voice sounded again and again, rattling around like a boggart in a cupboard. 

_Just pray I'm still alive._

It had only been a dream - this time. But it was all too possible. _Likely,_ even, given Voldemort's capacity for cruelty. Harry repressed a shiver and moved away from the mirror, suddenly not wanting to look at his scar any more. 

He dressed quickly, took his presents, and made his way down the stairs to the Gryffindor common room, surprised once more at how empty the castle was, a marked change from the Triwizard festivities and the Yule Ball last year. Still, considering the events that were going on outside these walls, perhaps it wasn't such a big surprise after all. The wizarding world was awash in turmoil, hovering on the brink of chaos. Voldemort had risen again, strange creatures roamed the countryside, and every day the headlines of the Daily Prophet screamed fresh and disconcerting rumors: the Dementors were discontent, Giants were stirring and organizing on the continent, wizards and witches were disappearing left and right. 

With things as they were, many parents were wary of sending their children to Hogwarts in the first place, and even more eager to have them home for the holidays. It didn't make much sense to Harry, who figured he was safer here under the watchful eye of Dumbledore than he would be anywhere else. Parents seemed to find the physical presence of their children a comfort; save for Harry and the friends who'd stayed to keep him company, the place was almost deserted. 

Harry walked down the last flight of stairs and stood in the doorway of the common room, waiting, satisfied to watch his friends for a moment. 

Ron and Hermione were seated opposite each other in big chairs in front of the fireplace, arguing across a wizard's chess table. Ginny sat on the floor beside them, propping herself up on one hand, rolling her eyes skyward and looking quite fed up with the whole situation. She was wearing a simple green sweater (almost certainly knitted by Mrs. Weasley) and a battered pair of Muggle jeans. Just looking at her made the grindylow in Harry's stomach flare up again. Whatever other things in the dream might have been false, his feelings for Ginny were still as real as ever. _And still just as dangerous, _he told himself. 

"'Lo, Harry," Ginny said, looking up at him. 

"About time!" Ron said. He was still flushed from arguing with Hermione, but didn't seem unhappy about it. On the contrary, Harry had made up his mind some time ago that whatever he might say, Ron _loved_ to have it out with her. "You can play Wizard's Chess with me. Neither of _them_," he pointed a thumb to indicate the two girls, "will even hear of one game." 

"Ron, you've played us both a thousand times before and you always win, so what's the point?" Hermione sniffed. She crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair, forcing a miffed-looking Crookshanks to reorient himself in her lap. 

"That's what makes it so great!" Ron leaned back as well, oblivious to the fact that he was mirroring Hermione's expression exactly. 

"Hullo," Harry said, moving to join them and seating himself in a third chair. He arranged his presents in a tidy little pile in front of him and tried to look cheerful. 

"All right then," Ron said, rubbing his hands together with glee. "Let's get down to it." 

They tore in, and soon the empty common room was filled with the sound of crinkling paper and happy exclamations. 

If he could have chased out the trickle of fear that was still worming through his heart, Harry would have thought this was a very enjoyable Christmas indeed. His presents were really quite nice. Ron had given him a contraband bottle of Madame Rosmerta's Dragon's Blood which certainly must have put him back a nice bit (even now, Harry felt guilty when Ron spent his sparse money on gifts for him, though he'd never insult him by refusing them) while Hermione had given him a PocketWizard Organiser, which he supposed only showed that whatever other feelings his two friends might have for each other, their respective attitudes towards the importance of goofing off and schoolwork would remain forever opposed. There were other gifts: Honeydukes fudge from Hagrid, socks from Dobby, a collection of new, untested Weasley Wizard Wheezes from Fred and George ("They wouldn't dare send us this stuff if we were at the Burrow with them," Ron declared), a wizarding wristwatch and a note from Sirius, and of course, yet another Weasley Sweater. He saved Ginny's present for last, both eager and afraid to open it. It turned out to be a woolen scarf in the Gryffindor colors, and when he threw it around his neck and thanked her, her answering blush of pleasure sent a thrilling tingle of electricity through him. 

On his end, he'd given Ron tickets to an upcoming Cannons/Arrows match (they'd have to skive off of classes a day to go to it, but he doubted Ron would mind much) and Hermione several of the fattest and most complicated looking books the Hogsmeade shop had to offer. And as for Ginny's present- 

"Oh, Harry," Ginny said, holding the silver bracelet up in front of her and letting it slide across her fingers. "It's- this is- really nice, you shouldn't have." As she slipped the thin circle of Silversilk onto her wrist, it caught the light and glinted just as Harry had imagined it would when he had seen it in the shop. The expression on her face was much as he had hoped, too. She smiled, blushing all the way to the roots of her flaming red hair now, and he felt his heart flutter with affection and confusion. This Ginny business was still so confusing, still held so many questions. How, for example, did the Weasley blush he'd seen Ron wear at least a hundred times manage to look so much _cuter_ on Ginny? 

Then she was hugging him, wrapping her slender arms around his neck in thanks, and he found that quite suddenly he didn't have the concentration nor the desire to figure out that particular mystery right now. It was enough to hold her, soak in her presence. She was soft and warm and she smelled wonderful, like cinnamon and warm grass and something else that he couldn't define, something that was singly and undeniably _Ginny_. 

"I'm sorry," she whispered. He could feel her breath tickling along his cheek, soft and silky as his invisibility cloak. "I-I'm sorry my present was so lousy. You got me that great bracelet and everything, and I gave you some stupid old scarf." She paused for a moment and then said in a rush, "You deserve a lot better." 

"No, it's great," he said, and meant it. He was glad she was too close to see his cheeks burning. "It's enough that it came from you." 

"You're nice, Harry," she said. It was a simple and childlike comment, but just hearing it made his heart beat faster, louder, till he was sure everyone in the room - scratch that, everyone in the _castle_- must be able to hear it. 

He knew the embrace had gone on long enough, but couldn't seem to make himself end it. She felt safe and warm and now that he had held her, he didn't want to let go. The only other time he'd held her this close, this long was during the terrible ordeal in the Chamber of Secrets, when he'd tried vainly to carry her to safety. Against his will, the memory came back to him, and he remembered her marble-cold flesh, her closed eyes, the horrible way her head had lolled, and- 

_(peeled her like a grape potter she was calling for you your fault your fault YOUR FAULT)_

-other things. 

_I won't let you hurt her,_ Harry thought fiercely, and he wanted to squeeze her tighter, so tight he might hurt her himself. _I won't let you hurt any of them, not for anything._

Voldemort's words assailed his mind, flying at him from all directions. 

_(everyone and everything you love)_

_(kill the spare)_

_(you'll be back with your dear mudblood mother soon, harry)_

_(you cannot hide from me)_

_(pathetic)_

_(bow to death harry)_

_(KILL HIM! KILL HIM!)_

_(thought you were made of sterner stuff)_

_(do you feel brave harry potter? do you feel safe now?)_

Harry's happy mood collapsed. The embrace made him feel safe, but it was the worst and most dangerous kind of illusion. No one near him was safe, had ever been safe, would ever be safe, until Voldemort was no more. His parents, Sirius, Cedric - so many lives extinguished or destroyed because they had brushed his own. 

_Don't hold me like this, Ginny,_ he thought. _It's not safe. _I'M_ not safe. _

Ron and Hermione had noticed the length of the hug. Hermione seemed to be very interested in stroking every inch of Crookshanks' matted fur, but Ron gaped with open eyes and yawning mouth. He fumbled about with nonsense syllables for a few seconds before managing some semblance of coherency. 

"Blimey," he said at last. "Guess I should've given one of those to Hermione." 

Hermione made a strange sound halfway between a squeak and a laugh, which they all judiciously ignored. 

"Ron, you're such a git sometimes." Ginny said, sighing. She pulled away at last, leaving Harry with a sense of intermingled regret and relief. He already felt the urge to hold her like that again, but didn't dare; the image of her lying dead and mutilated on the floor of the Burrow had seared itself across his mind, and he knew he couldn't allow that dark vision to happen for any reason. 

"Well, if you and Harry are done sticking together like melted fudge," Ron said, gathering up his presents, all thoughts of wizard's chess forgotten now. "We might all go down and have a bite to eat, since I'm bloody starving." 

"Maybe stuffing your mouth with food is the best thing for you, Ronald Weasley," Hermione said, but she was smiling. "It'll help you keep your foot out." 

"Well, then," Ron huffed. "Maybe stuffing yours would help you... um... er..." He blushed and looked down in the packages in his arms as a witty retort failed him. "Never mind." 

"Well, if you and Hermione are done spitting at each other like angry boomslangs," Ginny said, crossing her arms in satisfaction. "We'll go eat." 

"You think you know your little sister," Ron muttered as he headed up the stairs. "And then one day she crushes your friend near to death and calls you a snake. The things they must be teaching them these days." 

"He sounds like he's turning into Percy," Ginny said, scooping her own gifts into her arms and standing up. 

Hermione frowned. "Ugh. I'd hope _not_." Realizing what she'd said, she brought her hand up to her mouth. "Sorry, Ginny, I know he's your brother and all, and I'm sure he's very nice, it's just I er- um- prefer Ron." She looked down and continued petting Crookshanks, apparently not noticing she was ruffling his fur the wrong way until he gave an angry yowl and jumped away. 

"I'm sure you do," Ginny said, a mischievous grin spreading across her face at the other girl's expression of discomfort. She made her way towards the door. "And there's no need to apologize. I've lived with Percy for years." 

With the two Weasleys gone, a silence so uncomfortable it was palpable fell within the room. Harry felt he should say something, but wasn't sure what. Something cheerful, he supposed, but he didn't quite think he could manage that under the circumstances. Just looking at Hermione summoned the memory of her hot blood splattering on his face, her frantic eyes, the terrible _ripping_ sound... 

"Is something wrong, Harry?" Hermione asked. "You're awfully quiet." Harry found he was almost irritated with her for being concerned about him, seeing past his armor. In her own way, she mothered them all, and she always seemed to be able to tell when any of her friends was having a problem. 

"No, I'm fine," he said, staring into the fire as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. For a moment, there was nothing but the crackling and popping of the logs within, and then she spoke again, her voice quiet so no one else could overhear. 

"Ginny liked your present a lot, I could tell." She leaned over to pat him on the arm. "And Ron's just teasing like always, like he always does with me, he's not mad, not really. Just let him get used to the idea for a bit-" 

"That's not it," Harry said. He supposed he couldn't blame her for misinterpreting his fears; when he'd told her of his feelings for Ginny back before holidays started, he'd wondered aloud how Ron would take the news. And he had been worried about that, but that was days ago when he still had the luxury for such simple fears, before his dream, before he'd truly realized the terrible danger he was putting his friends in. 

"There's nothing. Really." He stood up forced himself to smile, hoping it didn't look as false as it felt. 

"Harry-" she began. Her eyes held the promise of an entreaty to tell her what was wrong, followed by a lecture on how stupid he was being. 

"Nothing at all," he said, and left the room. 

~~~ 

**_3.)_**

Harry had realized early in his life that asking for help from adults was usually hopeless. It was one of the many lessons he had learned without ever wanting to; it had not so much occurred to him as crept within his skin in that cupboard under the stairs. He had spent his childhood surrounded by dust and spiders, wishing that his parents would come back and rescue him, that the Dursleys would at least leave him alone, for a miracle, for anything. No help had come, and that was when he knew that if he wanted to survive, he'd have to rely on himself. 

And then had come the letter on his eleventh birthday, and that had changed everything. 

Here at Hogwarts, he was surrounded by perhaps the greatest minds in the wizarding world, and perhaps the greatest wizard of them all: Albus Dumbledore, the wisest, most kind man that he ever could have imagined. But even so, it was still hard for him to ask for help, even from them. It felt wrong somehow, unnatural. Circumstances had forced him and his friends to face the most difficult moments of their lives without adult help, and might very well again. It was best to stay prepared, best to stay self-reliant, no matter how much he might trust Dumbledore. 

But sometimes, there was only one choice to make. 

Which was why Harry found himself standing before the gargoyle that led to Dumbledore's office once again. He needed to talk to Dumbledore now more than he ever had before, even last year, when he'd had his _other_ dream of Voldemort. 

Then, at least, he had believed Voldemort was only concerned with coming after him, and he'd known that as long as he'd known anything about his real past. It was not until Cedric's death that he had first begun to realize anyone could be in danger, could be killed, even, just for being close to him, and even then the fear only lurked in his subconscious, vague and unformed. He had felt guilt for letting Cedric take the cup with him, putting him in the wrong place at the wrong time, but not just for _knowing_ him. It was not until his dream, not until he had seen his friends dead, that the possibility they could be a target for no other reason than they knew Harry had ever really occurred to him. It should have, he knew, for Voldemort hardly fought fair or honorably, but some sense of childish innocence had prevented him from realizing the truth until this morning. 

He only hoped he hadn't noticed too late. 

If Dumbledore had been surprised or worried at Harry's casual request for a chat, he had hidden it well. His face had shown nothing, but a spark of curiosity and merriment had danced in his eyes as he'd said, _"Of course we can talk, Harry. Come by this evening after you and your friends are finished getting into trouble for the day. The password, I believe, is still Cockroach Cluster."_

"Cockroach Cluster," Harry said, and the gargoyle stirred itself and leapt aside as the wall opened. He stepped within and onto the spinning spiral staircase, letting it carry him once more up and up until he reached the landing where Dumbledore's oak office door waited. He raised the heavy, griffin-shaped knocker and rapped it against the door once, twice. 

"Enter," said Dumbledore from within, and the door opened of its own accord. Harry walked in, restraining the urge to goggle at the room around him even with so much on his mind. 

Of all the strange, wondrous, and terrible places he had visited since his eleventh birthday - the Chamber of Secrets, the Burrow, Knockturn Alley - Dumbledore's office was perhaps the most interesting of them all. All of Hogwarts was a bit _stretchy_, of course- rooms that appeared out of nowhere, staircases that led different places at different times, that sort of thing - and Dumbledore's office was no exception; as Harry moved further into the room, he noticed a gaping picture window on the west wall that hadn't been there on any of his previous visits. More than that, though, the room carried a sense of concentrated wonder, as if all the magic in the castle had been gathered together in one place and infused into every atom of its contents - the cabinets and cupboards, the countless magical devices that hummed and spat sparks, the Phoenix that perched on a stand in the corner, even the polished wooden walls and the portraits of the dozing ex-headmasters that lined them. Whether it was the magic within or just the spirit of the man who worked here, being in this room never failed to relax Harry. Even now, he could feel the knot of fear in his stomach loosen, though it did not go away. 

Dumbledore stood up behind his massive claw-footed desk and smiled in welcome, eyes twinkling behind his half-moon glasses. "Have a seat, Harry," he said, conjuring a comfortable looking leather chair in front of the desk and sitting down again. Harry followed suit. 

The headmaster studied Harry's face for a moment and leaned forward, steepling his long fingers under his chin. 

"What do you want to talk about, Harry? The untimely cancellation of the Yule Ball, perhaps?" he asked, and Harry knew he was only trying to make light of things. But in the next moment, Dumbledore's expression sobered as he waited for Harry to speak. 

"Professor-" Harry began, stumbling over the words. "I had a dream last night..." And then he told him all of it: the dream, the next morning, his fears, his confusion. He left nothing out, as embarrassing as going into detail about Ginny and the bracelet was, because he wanted to be sure that he didn't hold back some important detail, some vital clue. Midway through the story, Fawkes flew over to perch on the back of Harry's chair and nuzzle his shoulder. Harry stroked his warm, downy head, thankful for the comfort. 

"So what I want to know," he said at last, "Is- does this mean anything? The last time I had a dream about Voldemort in school like this, it was real. It- it came true. Is this going to?" 

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair and sighed. He looked old and tired now, and Harry felt another stab of guilt - was he going to worry Dumbledore to death as well? At last, when he did speak, it was with a note of hesitation Harry had never heard him use before. 

"You ask a difficult question, Harry. Do I think this was a prophetic dream, or something Voldemort sent to you? No. You said your scar only hurt in your dream, correct?" He waited for Harry to nod his assent, then continued. "The scar is your oldest and most concrete link to Voldemort. He cannot come near or touch you in any way, even with his mind, without that old link flaring up and causing you pain. So no, he was not responsible." 

"Nor do I think the dream involved any sort of divination - it was made up of bits and pieces of things that had been happening to you in the present, like the gift you bought for Virginia Weasley." At this, Harry studied the floor and blushed a little despite himself, imagining rather than seeing the flash of good-natured amusement that must have crossed Dumbledore's face then. 

Or perhaps not. When Dumbledore spoke again, his voice sounded strained, and Harry was afraid to look up and meet his gaze. Afraid of what he'd see in that face, which even in its moments of anger or weariness had still seemed so strong. 

"Yet, at the same time, I cannot deny that possibly- perhaps-" For a moment, he trailed off, and Harry's mind gave a sick lurch. _You've even made Dumbledore lose it,_ he thought. _This must be bad._

"I am sure you've heard that I never lie, Harry," Dumbledore said, starting over. "Not since I was about your age myself. Many rumors about me are false, but that one is true. I have been tempted many times, of course, and yet, I think, never more than at this moment. If you were still a child, I might be so tempted that I would allow myself to comfort you. I might tell you that everything was going to be perfectly all right, that Voldemort would leave your friends alone, that they were in no more danger than the rest of us, that I could keep them safe." 

Harry looked up and saw that Dumbledore was staring out the window, where the sun was slipping behind the Forbidden Forest, leaving only a thin yellow crescent of light that turned the sky the color of blood. 

"But I do not lie, Harry, and in any case you deserve the truth. For you are not a child. You have borne more pain, experienced more loss and fear and suffering in fifteen years than most bear in a lifetime, and for better or for worse, you are a man for it." 

Dumbledore turned away from the window and looked at Harry with such raw force that Harry felt as if he were gauging the measure of the very soul he had just mentioned. His voice hardened even more, as if he were bracing himself for something, and Harry realized that still he had not heard the worst. 

"I told you once that you had been braver than even I had ever imagined, and you must continue to be brave. For I will not give you false promises. Your dream could very well come true. Voldemort wants to hurt you, and he will try to do it in any way possible. If he cannot get you, he will torture and kill the ones you love, for no other reason than to cause you pain. And though this may be difficult for you to hear, I think you know yourself that it is so and has been so all along. Yet perhaps to truly believe it you had to hear it from me." 

His voice softened again, and a look of regret crept onto his face, leaving lines that made him look older than ever. "I can promise you I will try my hardest to protect them, Harry. But I cannot promise you that I will succeed. In the end I am nothing but a man, and even powerful men make mistakes. Your parents could attest to that." 

"But-" Harry protested. "Isn't there something you could do, some spell, like you do with me and the Dursleys-" 

"My power has its limits, Harry," Dumbledore said. "I protect you, and the school, but that is all I can manage safely. Not that your friends the Weasleys don't have defenses of their own, of course. Most wizarding families do. Yet there is no wall that cannot be breached. Even if they or I or anyone had the power, we could not protect everyone you know every instant of the day, wherever they might go. Sooner or later, something might slip." 

"I understand, Professor," Harry said. He didn't really, didn't understand how the world could be so _unfair_, how it could be so much easier for Voldemort and his followers to kill and maim than it was for anyone else to protect. "I just wish that there was something I could do." 

"So do I, Harry. So do I. But all you can do is live. Enjoy your life and seize what happiness you can. Worrying too much about the future is a useless exercise." 

For a moment, there was silence between them, and Harry was reminded of his second year, when Dumbledore had asked him if there was anything he had wanted to tell him, and he, fearing the voices he heard in his head, had said nothing. He was just as scared now. 

At last, he said, "Thank you for the truth, Professor," and rose to leave. 

"Harry-" Dumbledore began, and as Harry turned to face him, he managed a smile. "There will be other Yule Balls, you know. Sometimes we must laugh loudest in the face of death, and revel even when darkness begins to fall. Sometimes, that's the only way." 

"I know," Harry said. But the words felt empty, useless. A look out the window confirmed what he really knew: darkness was no longer beginning to fall. The sun had set and the light was gone and he had never seen a darker night. 

~~~ 

**_4.)_**

Harry was tired of waiting. 

He sat up in bed, blinking in the darkness. The night really was as dark as he had thought earlier, as cold and quiet and moonless as any he'd ever seen. He didn't relish the thought of traveling in it at all, and wondered if delaying his departure till the wee hours of the morning had more to do with his reluctance to leave than his waiting for the castle to settle down. 

Opening the curtains on his bed didn't help any more than waiting for his eyes to adjust had; not even the barest thread of moonlight crept through the dormitory window, leaving him to grope blindly about the table for his glasses. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, he found them and slipped them on. Not, of course, that they helped him see in the slightest in these circumstances. 

Across the room, he could hear Ron breathing in the deep and even rhythm of slumber, though he couldn't even make out the outline of his four-poster. It was safe to move, then. Harry slid off the edge of his bed and felt about for the pack of things he'd stored underneath for a few minutes before realizing the effort was quite useless. If he couldn't even see where he'd left his clothes, actually getting dressed in the dark would be impossible. There was nothing for it but to risk a little light and hope Ron didn't wake up. 

"_Lumos,_" Harry whispered, and the tip of the wand sparked and began to glow. Harry blinked. Even the small beam of light that emerged from his wand dazzled his eyes after so long in the dark, but he could make out the things he'd prepared, tucked under his bed just as he'd left them. Carefully he pulled them free, ticking them off as he did so. His Firebolt and its servicing kit, the Invisibility Cloak, Potions and DADA texts (he wouldn't have Hermione to ask, after all), his Sneakoscope, extra clothes, sweets and odds and ends, and- 

Harry stopped himself as he regarded the last item- the photo album Hagrid had given him, stuffed with photographs of his parents and his friends. Hardly an essential, and he needed all the space he could spare, but if he was going to exile himself, he might as well have a reminder of who he was doing it for. But seeing pictures of his parents hadn't made him feel any better about their deaths - it had only intensified the longing ache that lurked in the hollow of his gut. Wouldn't this be just as bad? 

_No,_ he told himself. _No, because you'll see them again, once Voldemort is gone._ That is, if he was still around. He could be running right to Voldemort, and that would be the end- 

_Enough! _He stuffed the album into his pack before he could think about it any more. 

Dressing took longer than he had thought it would, and made a great deal more noise, but at last it was finished, and Ron did not wake. Which was fortunate, not only because Harry didn't want to be caught making a run for it, but because he didn't want to be caught making a run for it while looking like such a fool. He felt a little like a great overstuffed doll; he had donned a sweater, coat, boots, pants, and Ginny's scarf in preparation for his flight. Not that he knew where he was going, but considering this was the coldest winter England had endured in years, he was sure that wherever he decided to fly, icy wind would be whipping at him most of the way. 

Harry slipped the Invisibility Cloak around himself, took one last glance around his room, and headed down the stairs, saying a mental farewell to Ron. At the thought of the how his friends would feel when he was gone in the morning, Harry winced a bit, but there was nothing for it. He would leave the note right in front of the common room fireplace, surely they would understand. He wished he could tell them in person, but that was just impossible; it wasn't that he didn't trust them, he didn't trust _himself_. They would ask him to stay, say it was all nonsense, that they didn't care. He would listen, disbelieving and determined at first, but by the end, he might very well be convinced. And if Ginny asked him to stay, well, he didn't even want to think about that. 

_It's best this way,_ he thought. _You'll be safe. As safe as anyone can be. If he gets me, he won't want you any more. And if he doesn't, I'll come back._

He tiptoed down the stairs and into the common room, then stopped short. In the hearth, the fire was still blazing away despite the late hour - it was enchanted to feed itself firewood whenever necessary. Shadows danced across the room, revealing the looming forms of empty chairs and deserted tables, flashing off the Silversilk bracelet, and highlighting the pale curve of Ginny's face. 

_Ginny._ Seeing her now made him feel like he'd swallowed a Bludger. Or two. Or maybe one every Qudditch ball there was - he had a rather unpleasant fluttering sensation in the pit of his stomach he could swear was a Snitch. 

She was curled up in one of the big armchairs before the fire, still wearing the clothes from that morning, one hand holding an open book, the other braced under her chin, cradling her head as she slept. For a moment, Harry stood there, simply looking at her. Ginny was not what everyone would call beautiful, but gazing at her as the firelight played across her lips, her eyelashes, her hair, Harry felt himself moved by something that he could not quite understand. Something that felt bigger than himself, more powerful than anything he'd ever encountered, vast and timeless and mysterious. 

_Is this what love is like, then? _he wondered. It felt as if his heart had sprouted wings and was trying to fly away, but at the same time like the Bludger in his stomach had tripled in size. 

She stirred and shifted in her sleep, her hair falling across her face. Harry felt a sudden and fierce wave of protectiveness come over him. She looked so fragile lying there, and he knew then that he'd do anything to keep her safe, keep all of them safe. Even if it meant deserting them forever. 

"Goodbye, Ginny," Harry whispered, laying the note in the chair beside her. He lingered for a moment, wanting very much to touch her face, but in the end he turned away, walked across the room, and slipped out the portrait hole into the halls beyond. He couldn't risk the noise that closing it again might make, so he swung it around as far as he could and moved away on tiptoes. 

The halls were darker and quieter than ever, but the torches that burned in the wall sconces provided enough light for him to make his way quickly and quietly down the stairs, through the entrance hall, and out into the night. 

The night was still and calm, which surprised Harry. He had half expected to walk out into a blizzard like the one that had struck Hogwarts last week, a storm so violent that it almost seemed to be alive, plucking at them with frozen fingers of wind as they hurried through the snow to the greenhouses or Hagrid's hut. Now, there was no wind at all and a sea of unbroken white stretched before him, illuminated by the starry sky above. All the tracks from earlier in the day, when they had gone to visit Hagrid, when they had made snowballs and rolled together fighting in the snow, were gone, smoothed over by a light dusting of powder that must have fallen right after nightfall. Harry knew that he would leave a clear trail on that unblemished expanse of snow, but that didn't matter. He was only walking as far as the Quidditch Pitch, just to get himself oriented, and then he would be on the Firebolt and gone. 

Harry stood there, breathing clouds of white steam, and considered turning to look back at the castle one last time. But he didn't want to see it this way, cold and foreboding and dark in the middle of the night. He wanted to remember it as it had been for him, his _home_, the first place he had ever been happy, the first place he had ever had- 

_(your fault your fault always always always your fault)_

-friends. 

Harry set out across the snow, never looking back once, determined to see this through now that he had come so far. At last, he found himself on the Quidditch pitch, and once more he paused to sort through his memories. Here he had felt joy and fear and terrible pain, won victories and suffered defeats, and nearly died several times. If any one place summed up his contradictory life at Hogwarts, this was it. And it was time for him to leave all that behind. 

After one last glance across the dark and empty stands, Harry let the Invisibility Cloak slip from his shoulders, packed it away, and straddled his broom. This was just one more Quidditch game, just like the First Task had been. It would just take him longer to find the Snitch this time. If he found it at all, if there was even anything to find. He had the creeping suspicion that this was one game he couldn't win. 

"Harry, wait." The voice came from behind him, soft and tentative, but it felt like a dagger in his chest just the same. 

_Just take off, just take off and get out of here-_

"Please don't go. Not like this." 

He stepped off the broom and turned around. Ginny stood in the snow behind him, only her outline visible in the darkness. He could not quite make out her face, and found himself wondering what he would find there if he could. 

"You followed me," Harry said. 

"Yes." She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered a little in the cold. "You woke me up when you put the note in my chair, and I wanted to see what you were doing. You didn't close the portrait hole or turn around or anything, so I didn't call out. Not till I saw you take off the cloak and get on your broom. Harry, you can't leave. I don't know what's bothering you, but-" 

"That's right, you don't." He found himself growing annoyed with her. Was she so stubborn she was going to argue with him about saving her life? "How did you even follow me, anyway? I was wearing the cloak the whole time." 

Ginny took a few steps forward and grabbed the end of the scarf she had given him, running it between her fingertips. "This was sticking out." She said, her voice quiet. He could see her face now; she wore a look of worry that gouged and tore at his heart. "I could see the end of it flapping in thin air, and then once we got out here, your footprints-" 

"Oh, never mind," Harry said. "I guess it doesn't matter how you followed me anyway. I'm still going." She released the scarf and stepped back as if scalded, and he felt bad for the harshness of his tone. Ginny was the last person he wanted to be mad at; none of this was her fault. "Look, Ginny," he said, his voice softer now. "I'm really sorry. Tell Ron and Hermione and everyone I'm sorry, too. But I have to leave. It's not safe for any of you while I'm around. Voldemort could come for me at any time, and if any of you are around when he does-" 

"Harry, don't-" Ginny began, reaching out to him. "It's all right, really. I know you don't believe that, but-" 

_"It's not all right!" _Harry shouted. "Don't you see that? I dreamed that he killed everyone at the Burrow, you and Ron and your Mum, all because of me. It's not safe and it never was. I'm too dangerous- I should've realized- I've been putting you all at risk-" Something was stinging his eyes. He removed his glasses and swiped the back of his hand across his face angrily. 

"Harry, please don't," Ginny said. She hesitated for a moment, then rested her hand on his shoulder. He could feel it trembling, though with nerves or the cold he didn't know. "You think none of us know? Ron and I, we've known about- about- Voldemort," She said the name with some effort. "Since we were kids, and Hermione's studied up on him too. And Mum and Dad were around when he was in power the last time. We know. We all know what he's capable of. It's just-" She bit her lip. "It's just we don't care." 

"You don't care if you die?" Harry said sarcastically. "I really believe that." 

She squeezed his shoulder so hard it was almost painful, and he thought he could see tears shining in her eyes. Yet when she spoke, she sounded more angry than anything else. 

"Of course we care if we die, you git! But maybe we don't want to spend our lives worrying about something that's going to happen to us all eventually anyway!" 

Harry had never seen Ginny so angry, not even the time when Malfoy had teased Harry over her singing valentine. It upset him to think that she was this mad at _him_, but maybe that was for the best. Let her get angry. It would make this so much easier. 

"What do you expect us to do, Harry?" She glared at him, actually _glared_ and livid patches of red bloomed on her cheeks. "Just stop caring about you at all because of him? No matter who hates you, we'll like you if we want, because we're all Gryffindors and Gryffindors aren't cowards. And- and you're a Gryffindor too-" she blurted. "So stop letting him make you afraid!" 

"I'm not afraid," Harry insisted, and he wasn't, not for his own sake. He was afraid for _her_, for all of them. Couldn't she see that? "Think what it would be like to know that you were putting people care about- people you love- in danger just by being around. How would you know what that's like?" 

"I do know, Harry," she said. Her anger left her, replaced by something quiet and mournful. Tears spilled down her face, and when she spoke again, her voice was thick with restrained sobs. "I know exactly what it's like." 

_Idiot!_ He berated himself. _How could you say something like that, to her of all people? After Riddle and his diary- the Basilisk- she had to feel as guilty as you do right now. If not worse._

"Ginny, I'm sorry," he said. He wanted to take her in his arms, but felt he didn't deserve to, not after he'd said that, not when in the end he was going to leave anyway. "I didn't mean- that's- that wasn't your fault, please don't cry." 

"I know." Ginny wiped her eyes with her free hand, leaving the other on his shoulder. "At first, I thought everyone would hate me for that. My parents, my brothers, Dumbledore, _you_ especially. You almost died trying to save me, Harry. Don't you think I felt guilty about that? Knowing-" And she paused for a moment before rushing ahead. "Knowing how I feel about you." 

_Feel, not felt._ Harry felt as if a dozen curses had hit him at once. He could not speak, his heart jumped and leapt, his stomach clenched and opened like a fist. Ginny, apparently unaware of his discomfort, continued. 

"I thought my life was over. That summer- it started as the worst one of my life. But in the end, it turned out to be one of the best." Tears had stopped flowing down her cheeks, and the ghost of a smile crossed her face. "My family told me that what I did wasn't my fault. That just because of what happened, I wasn't a monster. They weren't afraid of me because of my brush with Voldemort, they loved me just the same, they said, because no matter what happened, I was still their Ginny, and that's all they needed to know. And-" She trailed off, but this time her eyes remained fixed on his. "And you're our Harry, and that's all we need to know. You're still the same person that we all love, and always will be, no matter who wants you dead. That's not your fault any more than the Basilisk was mine." 

"Ginny, I-" he wasn't sure what to say, wasn't sure if he wanted to run from her or kiss her. She was breaking down his defenses, just as he had feared she might. 

"You're not a monster either, Harry." She released her hand from his shoulder and ran the back of it over his cheek. It felt warm and wonderful and barely there, the gentle brush of a butterfly's wing. "I'm not afraid of you." 

"I- I- thanks," he stammered. "I'm glad you're not. But," he took a deep breath to steady himself, "iI'm/i afraid for all of you. I don't want you to die if I can do anything to prevent it. It's not safe. It's too much of a risk." 

"Harry don't you see, it's not-" Ginny paused, thinking, then reached up and cupped his face in the same hand she'd touched him with earlier. She started to bring up the second to join it, but stopped, as if afraid to push the contact any further. There was a long, pregnant moment of silence in which Harry wondered if he was about to have a terminal heart attack from just the soft caress of her hand, and then at last she started to speak again. 

"I keep forgetting what kind of a life you've had, Harry. Before you were eleven, you never had anyone. You never had a family that loved you. You didn't grow up understanding what love is like, and on some level maybe you still don't understand." Her thumb wandered his face absently, running across his chin, his lips, his cheek. He wasn't even sure if Ginny realized she was doing it, but he wasn't going to tell her to stop. 

"Of course it's a risk, Harry, because that's what love _is_, for everyone, everywhere. When you let yourself love someone, you take that risk, you open yourself to all sorts of pain that you wouldn't normally feel." Harry opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off, anticipating his protest. "And yes, before you say it, the risk with loving you is worse than most, but you're a better person than most, Harry. You're brave and kind and gentle and no matter what, you're worth the risk. That's why- that's why we love you, no matter what might happen." 

"Aren't we worth taking the same risk? If you close yourself off from us, we'll be just as dead to you as if Voldemort killed us. Why would you do something yourself that you'd never let him do?" 

Her words struck Harry to the core, and he felt his resolve waver and break, a fragile wooden dam snapping before a flood. She was right. What did he think he was doing? How could he turn his back on his friends, who would stand beside him no matter what happened? Who had known almost all along that even being near him put them in danger, but hadn't cared. He wouldn't be keeping them safe. No one could do that, not for certain. He'd only be hurting them, selfishly cutting them away so he wouldn't have to risk feeling pain or guilt. And if they would risk death just to be near him, couldn't he at least risk feeling bad in return? 

Voldemort could kill his friends, just as he could kill Harry. But running away was no answer, and would ensure nothing but pain for him and everyone else. There was no way of knowing if Voldemort would ever hurt those he loved, but he knew for certain that running away would. The only thing he could do, the only thing any of them could do, was stay close and stay alert, enjoy whatever time they had left and try not to let the looming shadow cover their lives. Dumbledore was right; laugh in the face of death, revel even in the darkness. 

But then, with Ginny standing there and holding his face, with her eyes and hair shining in the starlight, it didn't seem so dark after all. 

"Ginny, I- I've been a real git," He released his grip on the Firebolt, and it drifted to the ground. "I'm sorry. I don't know what I would've done if you hadn't said something. Thank you." 

"You're welcome, Harry." Even in the dark, he could see Ginny was blushing again, right to the roots of her hair. She hesitated for a moment, and then- 

_Is she going to? She _is_ going to-_

Her other hand rose from her side and joined the first in cupping his chin. She leaned closer until her face was mere inches from his own, and the rest of the world seemed to fall away, leaving nothing but the two of them. The Snitch was fluttering madly in his stomach. His heart thundered, blood roared in his ears, jolts of electricity shot up his spine- he wondered, distantly and absurdly, how anyone ever survived this stuff on a regular basis. 

Then, before he could think of that for long, she closed the last short distance between them and brushed her soft lips against his own. For a moment, his eyes sprung open wide and he felt his legs start to buckle, but in the next second he collected himself, taking her in his arms and pulling her closer. Their kiss was tentative, gentle, clumsy but trusting. Neither of them knew if they were going about this the right way, but Harry could say it sure _felt_ right - he suspected that no matter how often he won at Quidditch on this field in the future, he would never quite rival this moment. 

At last, a howl from the Forbidden Forest broke the mood, and she stepped back, releasing him as if she had only just realized she was holding a hot stove. He wondered if he was wearing the same dumbstruck expression of awe that was plastered across her face. 

"I'm sorry I got angry with you," Ginny said, as if there had been no pause in the conversation at all. She looked down at the ground and kicked her foot in the snow. "I just- after what happened to me, I couldn't let you feel the same way. I couldn't let you leave, not without letting you know how I feel." 

"I'm glad you decided to," He said, and then blushed at his clumsy words. It was ridiculous- they'd been talking about love and death and kissing like mad only moments before, and now he was stumbling over something as simple as telling her he liked her. 

"Oh! Thanks!" she said, then clapped her hand to her mouth. "And thanks for- you know. Kissing me." Her cheeks still burned; he didn't quite understand how someone could blush so much without fainting. "That sounded daft. Really daft. I think I'm going to go back to the castle now before I say anything more embarassing. I'll see you tomorrow." She turned to walk away. 

"Ginny, wait," Harry said. She froze, still not turning around. "Let's go back together." 

She didn't say anything as he gathered up his Firebolt and made his way to her side, but when he reached down to take her hand, her fingers closed around his first with a firmness that spoke of confidence. He took the Invisibility Cloak and draped it over both of them, drawing her close, partly because he wanted to make sure they were entirely covered, but mostly because he wanted her near him. Now, and for a long time to come. 

She was warm; he could feel it radiating out from her, in the grasp of her long and slender fingers, the tentative brush of her side against his as they walked. They made their way back to the castle together, quiet now not because they were still nervous, but because their closeness and their contact said more than any words they could have summoned. 

The next morning, only Hagrid would wonder what strange and fascinating creature had walked out of the castle, stopped, grown two extra legs, and walked back. 

_~Fin~_

What's this? A fic with a happy ending? No one died? What's the world coming to? SOMETIMES I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHO I AM ANYMORE. Well, I guess everyone has to take a break from **_ANGST! _**every now and then, even me. I've got enough of it in real life right now. Have your fluff and enjoy it! You heard me. This is as close to fluff as I get. Now if you don't mind, I'm going to go do something manly. 

Thanks to- 

_J.K. Rowling,_ for creating these characters for me to rip off in the first place. 

_Zachere_, for reading over this for me and pointing out my many bloopers with such a sense of humor that I really didn't mind being exposed to my own gross stupidity. Careful, I'm going to get spoiled. 

_Human_, _Nightsong_, and _Black_, for their many words of support, such as, "Harry Potter fanfic? You are _so_ gay, ser." 

_Snape,_ because he's just KAWAII ^^!!!! 

And, of course, to anyone that takes the time to review. We live on the comments - you may not quite believe it, but it's true. Hope you enjoyed this. 


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